


you blooming me

by Anonymous



Category: ENHYPEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - High School, But Not Problematic You Feel?, Inspired by Eleanor & Park, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Set in the '80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "What's your name?" Jake says. Then, slightly hurt: "I know you can hear me."Sunghoon sighs, can't help it. He turns to look over at Jake, making sure to keep his face impassive. "Sunghoon," he says. "Sunghoon Park."
Relationships: Park Sunghoon/Shim Jaeyoon | Jake
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50
Collections: Anonymous





	you blooming me

**Author's Note:**

> originally written as a cc drabble, repurposed for #jakehoon purposes

The new kid is an odd one. He's got these dorky transition lenses that make him look like an uncle and he slouches so bad that he probably has scoliosis. He's clutching his violin case in one hand, the other resting on the nearest seat. Sunghoon can see the shape of his mouth forming the words _can I sit here?_ as he bends down to be heard over the chatter of nearby kids. 

Sunghoon already knows they'll say no. It's how it is, around here: everyone keeps to themselves, sequestered in their own social circles. There's no place for someone new. 

Sunghoon can't help but admire his perseverance, though. He goes seat by seat, asking to sit, hit with a stream of _no_ s like a torrent of ice-cold water splashing against his face. By the time he reaches Sunghoon's seat, he's dejected, a little withdrawn. Like a kicked puppy left out in the rain. 

"Please," he says. His fingers are tan, used to the sun, but his knuckles wrap chalk-white against the handle of his violin case. 

Sunghoon doesn't bother to reply, just moves into the seat so that his shoulder presses up against the window. He places his backpack in between the two of them, just in case the new kid gets the ridiculous idea that he wants to be _friends_. 

The new kid talks to him anyway. "I'm Jake Shim," he says. "I moved here last week."

Sunghoon stares out the window. It's cloudy outside, dull and grey. A storm is brewing. There's nothing worth watching, but it would be worse to look over at Jake. 

"What's your name?" Jake continues. Then, slightly hurt: "I know you can hear me."

Sunghoon sighs, can't help it. He turns to look over at Jake, making sure to keep his face impassive. "Sunghoon," he says. "Sunghoon Park."

—

A couple days later, Sunghoon runs into Jake again. He's standing in front of his locker, violin case at his feet, eyes filled with some incomprehensible emotion, and Sunghoon _knows_ within a split second. 

Jake's hands are clenched into fists, body taut with tension like a rubber band stretched too far. Sunghoon doesn't want to see him snap back, doesn't want to see him break apart with the force of trying to retaliate. 

"What did they do?" Sunghoon asks. He already knows, in some ways. Jake isn't the first one to get targeted in this school.

Jake exhales loudly. "I—I think it's just red paint," he says quietly. "Some of it got on my case, too."

Sunghoon sighs with relief. "Oh, that's not bad," he says, trying his best to sound reassuring. He reaches out to pat Jake's shoulder, before second-guessing himself and stepping away. "Let's get some paper towels from the bathroom."

Jake's silent, for the most part, when they clean up. Nothing like the nervous, chattering boy on the bus, giddy with the novelty of the first day at a new school. 

"Have they—do they—done this to you?" Jake asks, in stops and starts.

Sunghoon scrubs over the scarlet-colored _GO BACK TO WHER YOU CAME FRM_ painted on the bottom of the locker and says, "Well, of course."

Jake screws his eyes shut for a second, then opens them again. "Okay," he breathes out. "Okay, okay." He sounds the same way Sunghoon did while trying to convince his little sister that Santa Claus was real. 

Sunghoon shrugs, again. It's his default response at this point. "You get used to it," he offers. That's all he can say. 

—

Sunghoon doesn't think of himself as a particularly friendly or welcoming person, but after that, Jake seems to imprint on him like a baby duckling. At first, Sunghoon tried to hide, but Jake's wide, searching eyes as he trudged through the bus were undeniable. 

"Have you lived here your whole life?" Jake asks quietly, leaning over the backpack to stare at Sunghoon intently. 

Sunghoon shrugs. "Yeah, basically." Before moving into their house, his parents had lived in an apartment in a poorer town fifteen miles south, but he doesn't think that's what Jake's referring to. 

"Wow." Jake pauses for a moment. He peers above the seat to take in the sea of heads on the bus. Blonde and brown-haired, none of them like theirs. "It's a lot different here, compared to California."

"California?" Sunghoon asks, curiosity overtaking any reservations he has for initiating conversation with Jake. 

"There are a lot more Asians in San Francisco," Jake says, scratching the back of his neck. He hesitates before continuing. "Here, it's just you and me."

Sunghoon looks away, out the window again. "I guess," he replies, so quiet that he's certain it is lost to the musty bus air. 

But they don't have any classes together, and so Sunghoon continues to keep to himself at school. That's the way it has always been; he hasn't had a friend in his classes since Jay Park moved back to Korea in the fifth grade. 

Sunghoon spends his lunch periods in the music room, practicing the piano. There are always a couple of marching-band kids in there, but they ignore his presence for the most part. 

There are a lot of things to hate about the piano: the keys are yellowed and cracked, the E above middle C can't make a sound, and the piano itself is so out of tune that it sounds like he's playing in a modulated key. Yet, he loves it, cares for it in the same way his little sister adores her ugly rag doll.

His fingers pause upon the keys as the doors swing open loudly, then resume playing after a moment. And then—

"Sunghoon? Is that you?" Jake calls, voice carrying across the room. Sunghoon can hear the thud of his violin case bumping up against the music stands as he makes his way over to the piano. "You play the _piano_?"

Sunghoon sighs as he turns to face Jake. "No, I'm just sitting there because—"

"Okay, okay," Jake interrupts, holding his hands up in the air as if being questioned by the police. "Bad question. What're you playing?"

"Chopin Ballade," Sunghoon replies shortly. He runs his hand over the sheet music, sifting through the papers until he finds the first page. "Have you heard it before?"

"Yeah, I have." Jake hums. "Can you play it for me?"

Sunghoon hesitates. "Maybe some other day," he says, thinking of how terribly he stumbles over the last page. He loathes the idea of showing Jake a work in progress, something that isn't completely impeccable. "When I'm done learning it."

—

"What do you think of this?" Jake says, handing him an earbud. Over Christmas break, Jake's parents bought him a Walkman, and all they do on the bus nowadays is listen to music. It's difficult to hear, sometimes, over the motoric hum of the school bus and loud conversations of nearby students. 

Sunghoon closes his eyes, hand covering his other ear to block out the background noise. He can't make out many words, just the strumming of a guitar and a crooning melody that seems to twist and turn with the accompaniment. 

It feels like summer and golden honey. It feels right.


End file.
